forgive me father for you have sinned
by little red after the wolf
Summary: Sometimes he drinks too much and she looks too much like her mother. — Nessa-centric (tw: abuse tw: molestation tw: rape)
1. innocence

**A/N: So I wanted to write something messed up and I was like, oh, remember that headcanon you have that Frex isn't the best father to either of his daughters, especially when he's drunk? And then this happened and I was like, shit, my poor baby Nessa.**

It starts when Nessa is 12. She is small and slight of frame, with her hair held back by a headband her doe eyes glistening that pretty green. (Nessa's eyes are the only exception to green being ugly in the Thropp family.) She looks so much like her mother, as Frex will tell her with a kiss to her forehead.

Elphaba thinks she can recall Mother's face and from what she can see, Nessa does. Elphaba who has been sent out to the market with a list too long and more money than she needs.

The tragically beautiful girl is reading (there is not much else she can do) when she notices anything is off. There's a bottle of hard liquor at his lips and an old photo album in his hand. Nessa tentatively wheels herself towards him. "Papa, are you okay?" She asks, her voice delicate.

He doesn't move.

The bottle tips up a little more. "Melena," he murmurs, "come here." Confused, she does as he says.

"Papa?" Her voice wavers.

She can see that his eyes are hazy. They are clouded and there is something in them . . . Something she has never seen. And he is outreaching his arms to her. Not in the way he does to hold her hand and tell her she has to have another surgery. Not in the way he does to hug her. Not in any way she has known.

His fingers undo the ribbon of her blouse.

"Papa? Wh—what are you doing?" She whispers.

Her words do not reach his ears.

He pushes her blouse open. She does not know what this means. Only Elphaba has ever opened her blouse for her, only ever to help her change.

"Melena, Melena," he hums softly, his eyes clouding further. Before she can ask him what that is, his mouth is against her bare chest, licking, biting, nipping at the skin. Nessa cannot understand. What is her father doing to her? What is that strange feeling in her stomach?

He bites too hard and she cringes with a whimper.

"Shut up," he growls into her skin.

She has only ever heard him tell Fabala to shut up. It has always been with malice. But Frex has never directed that malice at her. Something is wrong. She fully registers now that something is horribly wrong. This is not normal. Or . . . Or is it? Her birthday was only last week. Perhaps this is something all fathers do once their daughter is twelve.

But he has never told her to shut up.

(She thinks she can remember him telling her sister to shut up even before she was twelve. And Fabala has never told her about this.)

Still, she stays quiet. Her father loves her. He must have a reason for this. He wouldn't hurt her.

His hands, rough and greedy, explore her flesh. He squeezes at her developing chest, pulling his mouth far away to examine. "Melena, how long has it been?"

She has no answer.

Haphazardly, he yanks her out of the chair. Nessarose has never liked being without her chair, she is useless and vulnerable without it. Papa knows how she hates being pulled out of it.

 _Whywhywhywhywhy?_

But there has to be a reason for it.

There has to be a reason Frex tugs her skirt down and off her useless legs. There has to be a reason he discards her underwear with the skirt. There has to be a reason he unbuttons his pants. There has to be a reason he pulls something she has never seen out of his underpants. There has to be a reason he lines it up with her down there.

She doesn't say a word though she tries to look at what he's doing. It is sloppy and uncoordinated and—she screams. It hurts so much.

"Papa!" She shrieks, unable to maintain her trusting silence.

His hand connects with her cheek. Never has Frexspar hit _his little Nessa_ before. She has watched quietly, unsure of what she could do, as he slapped Elphaba for losing control before, she has seen him hit the wall on her birthday when she was not supposed to be watching, but never has he hit her.

Tears like weighted ice drip down her rosy cheeks. Nessarose is certain he has left a welt. She can feel her blood, white hot, rushing to the stinging area. Worse, she can feel that _sickening_ pain down there.

She hasn't hurt this badly since the first surgery. But, for the first time in her life, Father does not care. Father does not coddle her like she has come to resent ever so slightly, Father does not kiss her forehead, Father does not glare at Elphaba and demand to know what she did, Father does not promise her candy or a new dress to make it better.

Instead, he slams his hips against hers, pushing her useless legs further apart.

She is almost sure that if her legs weren't the way they are, it would hurt even more. But Father would never hurt her. Not intentionally.

Would he?

No. Something must be wrong. This has to be something all fathers do with their daughters once they are twelve, this has to be normal. She just . . . She wasn't supposed to scream. She was wrong. That is the only reason he would ever hit her.

She deserved it. Of course she did. She can't even walk, it's no wonder he finally saw how horribly wrong she was.

So, no matter the screaming pain ripping at her, no matter the metallic smell of blood, no matter the welting flesh, Nessarose Thropp bites her tongue. She clamps her teeth down, trapping it. The more she wants to scream, the harder she bites down.

Father smashes his hips harder still against hers. She can _feel_ that strange, strange thing she had seen digging deeper into her. Her teeth crash down harder.

She can taste blood.

"Melena," he growls, one rough hand on her chest, the other stilling her already limp body at the hip. His nails dig into her bare flesh, leaving crescent cuts in their wake.

She muffles a scream, tears streaking down her cheeks. Father would never hurt her. This is _normal._ It has to be. It _has_ to be. It is.

A burst of warmth fills her, he stops moving. Holding her breath, Nessa waits. Is he done?

"Get dressed," he tells her, untangling his body from hers. He stumbles on his way to the kitchen.

Nessarose sobs into her hands. She cannot dress herself. Her insides are sickeningly warm. Her legs are twisted, even with the braces. Her wheelchair is out of her reach. She wishes she knew what was wrong with her.

This is normal.

Fathers are supposed to do this. Why is she being such a _brat_ about it? She knows she isn't strong enough to simply stop sobbing. She is not like Elphaba.

"Fabala," she whimpers into her hands. "Please come home."

Her fingers tremble as she tries to close her blouse. It is hard, but she manages. Her arms reach for her skirt. She has to pull herself across the couch, but she manages to grab it. Quickly, with great shame, she struggles to pull it over her worthless legs.

"Fabala," she sobs, "help, I—I can't . . ." She hates being so weak. She hates being so useless. "Why can't I do anything for myself? I can't even sit still while Papa . . ." Wiping the tears from her cheek, she forces herself to search for her underwear.

She has to do something for herself. Just once.

Elphaba comes home to a praying Nessa.

"Nessie, what are you doing out of your chair?" The green girl asks, tentatively.

"Asking the Unnamed God for forgiveness," she murmurs, "I have sinned."

Because it was _normal._

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reviews are love. give nessa and elphie some.


	2. wanting

**A/N: So I think I got meaner to Nessa. Sorry.**

Nessa has noticed several things in the past two months; her chest has seemingly become more swollen, her hips jut out a little more (though they're still bony), her father has been drinking more than usual, Elphaba has been going out to run errands more often, and her body has slimmed a bit, now ever so slightly exerting what she has heard Munchkin boys call curves.

Papa tells her she looks more and more like her mother. He still whispers into her skin that word, still roams his fingers across her body, but he has not stuck that thing she had seen inside her down there since the first time.

She can't help but wonder if something is wrong with her to make him not want to.

There must be something wrong with her. He's had her put it in her mouth but that's not the same. "It's my legs, isn't it?" Nessa whispers, "my useless, crippled legs." She wishes the mirror would not show so clearly the welts and scars and twist that the braces and the surgeries have done nothing to aid. "I hate you," she whispers into her legs, "everyone else can walk. _Toddlers_ can walk. Why can't I?"

"Nessie?" Her sister's voice carries in, softly.

"What?" She croaks.

"I . . . I know why you can't walk . . ." The green girl confesses.

"You do," it's more of a statement than anything.

"Father told me." Nessa knows what guilt looks like (she's seen it in her own reflection so often, on her birthday, most often) and it's that look in Elphaba's eyes.

"Why, Faba? Why can't I walk?" Her voice is much needier than she wants it to be.

"Because . . . Because of me." There is silence but the whole world is screaming into it. Nessa can feel the vibrations in her bones and in her skin and it is so, so clear. How could her sister be why she can't walk? "Father, he—he was so concerned . . . So worried you—you'd be gr—like . . . Like me, he made Mama chew milkflowers . . . It made you come too soon with—" Elphaba's voice chokes, "with your legs . . . All . . . All tangled. That's why, Nessie. Because . . . Because I'm . . . I'm _green._ Because I'm green. It's my fault."

Her throat is too dry to form words so instead, Nessarose looks down at her lap. What is she even supposed to say? What is there to say?

"I'm so sorry, Nessie," she whispers, her voice cracked.

Nessa is silent. This silence does more than scream.

* * *

She snaps at their father, just before dinner. With wide, angry eyes, he sends her to her bedroom and sends Elphaba out to do chores.

The night should end there.

Part of her hopes it does, but another part of her, the part that would trade the world just so she could be loved, whines that it wants something to happen. Something does happen. Frex nurses a bottle of liquor and, with wobbly legs, stomps into her room.

"Papa?" She asks, unsure of what he wants. He has only ever come into her room when she has a nightmare.

"Melena," he whispers, gruffly. She expects he only wants her to put it into her mouth again. Who would want anything more from such a crippled girl?

His hands are all over her small body. _Oh._ So he does want her. It feels good to be wanted.

He tears off her clothing, roughly and harshly. But really, she doesn't know it can be gentle. Maybe she never will. It doesn't matter now, all that matters to her is the way he grips her wrists too tight above her head and pushes her body into her bed with his own.

"Shh, shh, Melena," he whispers, "don't want to wake anyone."

She can't place the stench on his breath. All she knows is his lips are suffocating hers and she can hear that zipper going down. Some part of her stomach is excited by this. It means someone wants her, after all.

This time hurts even more than last time, he doesn't build it up like before, he just shoves the strange thing inside her after discarding her underwear from her nightgown. She tries to scream out in pain but he slaps his hand down on her mouth and puts a finger to his lips.

"Hush," he grunts, pushing her further down into her bed. Nessa nods, trying to blink back the tears welling up at the pain.

It doesn't work.

If he sees the tears in her eyes at the bruising and slamming, he doesn't care. Frex just pounds into her frail body, pushing her as hard as he can. "Do you like that?" He hisses.

She shakes her head. How on Oz could she like such pain?

"Ungrateful bitch," he growls, going harder and faster.

. . . She knows what this is. It's the punishment she deserves. She's lucky to have him doing this to her, especially after last time. _I should be more grateful. I_ wanted _this. And Papa doesn't have to do this, with my legs not working and all. But . . . It hurts so much. Oz. Is it supposed to hurt like this? Is the Unnamed God punishing me?_

She screams into his palm as he thrusts too deep. She can smell the blood again.

It hurts so much to be wanted.

* * *

reviews are love. give nessa and elphie some.


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